We Need to Talk About Kevin

by Lionel Shriver

How lucky we are, when we’re spared what we think we want! How weary I might have grown of all those silly pots and fussy diets, and how I detest the whine of sitar music!

never liked him very much, Gladys.” I met her eyes squarely, mother-to-mother. “I realize it’s commonplace for parents to say to their child sternly, ‘I love you, but I don’t always like you.’ But what kind of love is that? It seems to me that comes down to, ‘I’m not oblivious to you—that is, you can still hurt my feelings—but I can’t stand having you around.’ Who wants to be loved like that? Given a choice, I might skip the deep blood tie and settle for being liked.

I had strong, stormy Armenian features and so wasn’t considered pretty.

“Kev,” you said. “Don’t take anything you might have overheard to heart. It’s easy to misunderstand when you hear something out of context.” “Why would I not know the context?” He took a single swallow from his glass. “I am the context.” He put the glass on the counter, and left. I’m certain of it: That moment, that hard swallow, is when he decided.